The Life of Glass

by Jillian Cantor

  I got Bs in the rest of my classes, and once you averaged out the A and the C, I was a solid B student, which was more than enough to please my mother. “Very good,” she’d said as she’d glanced, only barely, at my report card. And it almost felt like I was getting away with something because I knew my dad wouldn’t have been satisfied, that he would’ve expected better from me. Before he died, I’d been a straight-A student.

  Chapter 11

  Just after school let out for winter break, my mom announced that Aunt Julie was coming to town for a visit. Aunt Julie never came to visit; in fact the only time she’d been here since I was born was for my dad’s funeral, and even then, she and Uncle Frank were in and out in less than forty-eight hours. “Once you leave a place,” my mother had said, “there’s something about it that makes you never want to come back.” I didn’t exactly understand what she meant, and I wondered if I ever moved away if I’d want to come back here or not. Maybe I would miss the desert, all the parched and prickly landscapes and blue skies and dust and brown horizons. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe if I moved somewhere on the East Coast like Aunt Julie did, I would get used to the snow in the winter and the constant sticky dewiness of the air in the spring.

  Aunt Julie arrived two days before Christmas. My mom was at work and Ashley was out, so I was the only one there when she rang the doorbell. When I opened the front door, she was standing there on the front step wearing a long brown dress with her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. She was sort of like a miniature version of my mother, only not as pretty and much more serious-looking. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and she’d gained a little weight since I’d seen her last. She had three bags, piled high on top of one another, propped up next to her. Either she didn’t pack light, or she was planning on staying.

  “Where’s Uncle Frank?” I asked.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s just me this time.” She stepped toward me, like she was about to hug me but wasn’t sure where to put her arms, so I reached out and hugged her to avoid any awkwardness.

  “Come on in.” I held open the door and she pulled the suitcases through, having to fight to make it over the threshold.

  I already knew that something was up. Aunt Julie did not go anywhere without Uncle Frank. Ever. Even when they came to see us when we were in Philadelphia and we were only a few hours’ drive from where they lived, Aunt Julie hadn’t come alone. In fact, I’d sort of made them into one person in my mind, so it felt funny to see her here by herself.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked, surveying the house.

  “Mom’s at work and Ashley’s out somewhere. Probably with her boyfriend.”

  “Oh.” She sat down at the kitchen table and I offered her a drink. “Just some water. No ice.”

  I got it for her and sat down next to her.

  “So your sister has a boyfriend now, huh?” I nodded. “What about you, Melissa?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head. My aunt and I weren’t exactly what you would call close. Sure, she’d send me a card with a check for fifty dollars on my birthday, and every once in a while I’d pick up the phone and say hi or something when she called to talk to my mom, but I wasn’t about to spill my guts to her or anything like that.

  “I never had a boyfriend when I was your age either,” she said. “Just study and keep your grades up and go to a good college. That’s what really matters right now.”

  “Uh-huh.” Clearly, Aunt Julie would’ve been disappointed by my report card. I could imagine her shaking her head, her tight, thin lips pursed in a frown.

  “So what’s it been like around here lately in the desert?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if she wanted a weather report or a gossip report, but I took another look at her serious, tightly woven bun and opted for the weather. “Nice,” I said. “Cool. Sunny.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “This is always the time of year when I miss being here. Just when the snow starts to pile up in the mountains back east.” She stared out the glass door into our backyard and seemed very deep in thought.

  “You staying long?” I finally said, just to say something.

  “Oh I don’t know. A few days.” She paused. “Just to catch up.”

  But she sounded so sad that I instantly wondered what had happened, what Uncle Frank had done.

  Aunt Julie decided to take a nap, so I helped her carry her bags up to my father’s old office and get the sleeper sofa all set up. “Will you wake me when your mother gets home?” she said. “I don’t want to sleep till morning.”

  I realized I’d have the house to myself for a few more hours and I felt a little bit antsy, just itching to get out of it. I could call Ryan or Courtney, but I already knew they’d be hanging out together, and I didn’t feel like playing the third wheel again.

  It was a beautiful day outside, bright piercing sunshine and nearly 70 degrees, so I decided I would take a bike ride to visit Grandma Harry. I’d put “Find out more about Sally Bedford” on my mental winter-break to-do list. And if this was my tragic flaw, so be it.

  I scribbled a quick note for Aunt Julie in case she woke up, grabbed my jacket, and hopped on my bike.

  It turned out I was wrong about Ryan, who was in the front yard trimming a bougainvillea with this big pair of hedge cutters. “Hey there, landscaper man,” I yelled.

  He looked up, and I noticed a dead flower in his hair. “Hey, Mel. You riding in the wash?”

  I shook my head. “To Sunset Vistas. To see my grandmother.”

  “Oh.” We both kind of stared at each other for a minute or so.

  “Wanna ride with me?” I finally said. “I could use some company.” I knew he would. Ryan was always looking for an excuse to get out of the chores his father left for him.

  “Let me just go in and get my inhaler,” he said.

  So we rode, the two of us again. It had been nearly a month since we’d ridden at all, nearly two since we’d ridden in the wash, and I wondered if those days of treasure hunting were over, if it was something we’d finally outgrown.

  “How’s Courtney?” I asked him.

  “She’s in San Diego this week. With her dad for Christmas.”

  I was a little surprised that she hadn’t called to tell me she was leaving. But then the other part of me, the tiny little place where I stored joy, did a momentary happy dance. I was going to have him all to myself again.

  “What are you doing for Christmas?” he asked.

  We hadn’t really discussed it yet, beyond the fact that Aunt Julie was coming and that my mom might be inviting Kevin Baker to Christmas dinner. (“It’s not a definite, girls. Only a maybe. Just a maybe.” It was hard to tell if she’d meant her relationship with him or just the one dinner, but I took it that she only meant the dinner.) “The Hair might come over,” I said. “And my aunt’s in town.”

  “You have an aunt?” he said.

  It seemed strange that he didn’t know that, but it’s not like he ever would’ve met her. He and his father had come to my dad’s funeral, but we weren’t going around making tons of introductions or anything. “Yeah. My mom’s sister. She lives in Pennsylvania.”

  “Wow.” He shook his head. “I totally did not know that about you. What do you call her?”

  “Aunt Julie.”

  “No, I mean like a nickname.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t really thought about it before; she wasn’t exactly a big-enough part of my life to warrant it.

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a sociology professor.”

  “Perfect. The Professor.”

  I nodded. That suited her, stodgy and serious, but I felt a little bad thinking about how sad she’d been earlier, so I added, “She’s really not so bad,” though I had no idea if this was completely true or not.

  “Man.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe your mom’s still dating the Hair. That’s insane.”

  “I know,” I said, but I didn’t want to say anything else, didn’t even want
to talk about him because the more I thought or talked about him, the more real he felt. And the more real he felt, the sadder I got about my father all over again.

  We pulled into the Sunset Vistas parking lot and stopped our bikes by the front doors. “You wanna come in?” I asked. Ryan had met Grandma Harry before, when we were younger, but he hadn’t seen her in years, not since she’d become infinitely forgetful.

  “Naw,” he said. “I’ll wait for you out here. Guard the bikes, in case any old fart tries to escape.”

  “You’re terrible,” I said, but I was still smiling.

  Grandma Harry was sitting up in bed watching Oprah, or she had Oprah on and she was staring at the TV anyway. “Oh, Melissa.” She waved me in. “Honey pie. I was just thinking about you.”

  “You were?”

  “This lady on Oprah holds the record for reading the most books in the entire world, and I was just thinking about how you always used to read so much, and your father would help you keep a list of all the books you read.”

  Yes. So long ago. In a world before Dr. Singh and cancer and death, I had been a serious and avid reader, a frequent checker-outer at the library. It was a part of my life I’d forgotten about until that moment, until she’d gone and given it back to me, like a gift. “How many books has she read?” I asked, pointing to the TV.

  “Oh I don’t know, honey pie. Dang it, I can’t remember. Maybe a million. Oh my memory is terrible. Come sit down and watch with me.”

  I pulled up a chair, but I wasn’t really interested in watching. I’d come here on a mission. Sally Bedford. Sally Bedford. Sally Bedford. And I didn’t want to leave Ryan waiting outside too long. So I just decided to blurt it out. “Grandma,” I said.

  “What, honey pie?”

  “Can I ask you something about my dad?”

  She turned her eyes from the TV to me, and her eyes looked way too deep and intense for the eyes of a person who was half missing behind them. “He’s dead. Isn’t he?” she said.

  It was a relief to hear her say it, to hear her remember, to not have to dance around the obvious, make up an excuse, or lie. I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “He is.”

  “How did it happen? How did he die?”

  “Cancer,” I said.

  “My memory is terrible.” She shook her head. “My memory is just so bad.” She reached for my hand, and when I gave it to her, she squeezed it.

  “A few months ago when I was here, I asked you about Dad’s old girlfriends, and you said something about Sally Bedford. Who was she?”

  “Oh, honey pie”—she let go of my hand and leaned it on her forehead as if she had developed a terrible migraine—“did I really say that?”

  I nodded.

  “You know my memory is terrible. I can’t remember saying that.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s okay. We all forget things.” It was a lame attempt to make her feel better and I knew it, but there were only so many times I could nod and smile when she told me how forgetful she was before I felt the need to try to make her feel better. “But Grandma, who was she? How did Dad know her?”

  She grabbed my hand again, and she squeezed it really tight. “Honey pie, sometimes it’s better to forget.”

  Ryan was lying on a half wall next to our bikes, sunning himself when I walked out. He had his sunglasses on, so it was hard to tell if he was napping or daydreaming. “Hey, get up.” I pushed his leg a little bit, and he sat up. “Are you up for a ride?”

  “Well, duh. I’m here aren’t I?”

  “No, I mean a real ride. I’m going to Charles and Large.”

  “Mel, you can’t be serious.”

  “What?” I shrugged. It couldn’t be more than another five miles or so to Charles and Large, and we’d already come this far. We could do it. I thought briefly about my aunt Julie napping in my father’s study and the fact that my mother might beat me home, but then I pushed those thoughts aside. I was going to find Sally, and I was going to find her today.

  He sighed and hopped back on his bike. “What is so damn important at Charles and Large?”

  “I’ll tell you once I figure it out,” I said.

  So we pedaled across flat and gridded streets until we got closer to the center of town. I kept pedaling even when my legs were tired, even when I heard Ryan’s breathing, thick and heavy behind me, but I stopped when he stopped, when he pulled out the inhaler and sucked on it, hard. “We’re almost there,” I said.

  “Mel, I don’t think I can do it.” His voice sounded raspy.

  “You can.”

  “But I’ll never make it home.”

  “We’ll call Ashley to pick us up and we’ll come back for our bikes in the morning.” I was inventing a plan on the spot, not really thinking it through enough to realize that Ashley might not come for us, that she might not even answer if we called her. But I kept pedaling. Because I had to, because I needed to know.

  And then at last I saw it there, over the horizon, the big Charles and Large sign with the logo that reminded me of a Christmas-tree star, sitting right there against the backdrop of a purple-and-brown mountain, as if it were native to the desert, as if it belonged here.

  “It looks pretty empty,” Ryan said, wheezing. He was referring to the parking lot, which had only maybe ten cars left in it. And it occurred to me that it was almost Christmas, that everyone was probably on vacation.

  I left my bike by the front entrance, not even bothering to chain it, and Ryan did the same. He followed me inside without saying anything else, maybe because he thought I was acting a little crazy or maybe because he was just entirely out of breath. I’d taken it all from him, everything he had.

  The front receptionist was still at her desk. She was a large woman in a sacky black dress, and she wore her phone in a headset and typed something on her computer while she talked. I sat in a chair and waited until she hung up.

  “Can I help you?” She stared at me kind of funny, turning her head to the side. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” I said, but then I realized that maybe she did, because she looked vaguely familiar, and she might’ve worked here when my dad did, she might’ve been at his funeral. Who could really be sure? His work friends, his companions had all just been a blur, a sea of stretched and unfamiliar faces. I cleared my throat. “I’m looking for Sally Bedford.”

  “Oh, well, you’re about six months too late.” I immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was dead, which simultaneously annoyed me and made me feel somewhat relieved. I was never going to know the truth. “She hasn’t worked here since June,” she said. Not dead. Just fired. Or she quit.

  “But she was on your website. I saw her picture.”

  She laughed. “She was the one who did our website, and the big guys”—she pointed in the direction of what I assumed to be Charles’s or Large’s office—“have come down hard on the budget. So they haven’t rehired for her position yet.”

  “Do you know where she works now?”

  “I have no idea.” She squinted. “You related to her or something? I know I know you from somewhere.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

  I grabbed Ryan’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “McAllister,” I heard her say behind me. “That’s it. Yes, Tim, or was it Tom?”

  I quickly tried to wipe away the tears that sprang into my eyes before Ryan could notice them.

  From the parking lot, I called Ashley’s cell three times before she picked up. “What’s your problem?” she yelled into the phone when she finally answered. She was breathing heavily, and it occurred to me that maybe she and Austin had been in the middle of making out. The thought that she was lying there half naked with him or something really creeped me out. It’s just not the way I wanted to think of her.

  “I need you to pick me up,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Seriously, Ash. I really need a favor. Just this once.”

  “You’re a big girl, Melissa. Jus
t find another ride, all right? Or call Mom.”

  “But I—” She hung up on me before I had a chance to finish. “Bitch,” I whispered to no one in particular, though Ryan heard me.

  “Oh crap. She’s not coming, is she?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll call my mom.” Really, it was the absolute last thing I wanted to do, because there was no possible way I was going to explain it to her where it would make any sense. Maybe this was my tragic flaw, not thinking things through. “You have to dive with your head, Melon, not your heart,” my father always used to tell me when I was younger and I’d get in trouble for doing something stupid that I hadn’t really thought about first. Whereas my mother just never had the patience and would say something like, “Oh honestly, Melissa. What were you thinking?”

  Then I remembered: Aunt Julie. The Professor. I didn’t really know her, and she didn’t really owe me anything, but I had a feeling she would hop in the shiny blue rental car I’d seen in the driveway on my way out and come get us.

  “My dad is going to kill me,” Ryan said.

  Mr. Thomason was a tall and serious-looking man whom I rarely ever saw smile, and there was something about him that always scared me just a little bit. “I’m going to call my aunt,” I said. I dialed my home number; it rang five times and I got the voice mail. So I called back two more times, until she finally picked up. “McAllister residence,” she said in this short and formal way that sounded nothing like how any of us ever would’ve answered the phone.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Melissa.”

  “Your mom’s not back yet, and neither is Ashley.”

  “I know.” I paused, considering how to ask her. “Can you come pick me up?”

  “Pick you up? Where are you?”